


Tactics of an Odd Kind of Love

by CrazyPierrsonMan



Category: Tomb Raider & Related Fandoms, Tomb Raider (Video Game)
Genre: Blood, Canon-Typical Violence, Fluff, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Nudity, Romance, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-28
Updated: 2017-06-28
Packaged: 2018-11-20 04:39:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11328771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrazyPierrsonMan/pseuds/CrazyPierrsonMan
Summary: Larson and Pierre are lovers. But their lives are cut short by Lara Croft when they try to stop her from getting the Scion of Atlantis... or did they survive? Yes, it's another one of THOSE fics by a delusional author partially rewriting canon, hoping to keep their ship alive!





	Tactics of an Odd Kind of Love

 “Hold on. I’m sorry—” Lara began, “—this  _piece,_  you say. Where’s the rest?”

Larson grinned. “Ms. Natla put Pierre Dupont on that trail,” he announced triumphantly. Boss would find it before Lara, surely. He was the most cunning man aliven, Larson knew that for a fact

 “And where is that?” asked Lara. Larson guffawed. He may be dumb, but he knew that Lara was asking where Pierre had gone so she could find the next piece of the Scion for herself.

 “Ya ain’t fast enough for him,” he replied.

They’d had their asses whooped, for lack of a better term, by Lara Croft just last year in Rome. When Ms. Natla had announced to the guns-for-hire that Lara Croft was their target, Larson visibly grimaced.

But Pierre stood triumphantly. “Ms. Natla, I promise to you that we will return with the other pieces of your artifact in short order.”

Larson couldn’t help but stare in awe at his Boss. Truth be told, Larson was absolutely  _terrified_  of the famed archaeologist-adventurer ever since their encounter with her in Rome. He’d been thrown so hard he cracked nearly every rib in his body, and broken an arm. But Pierre—he had fallen from a  _sheer drop._ Pushed off by Ms. Croft herself, no less.

Larson still thought she was a gorgeous li’l fireball, but when she nearly killed the man he was in love with—that’s just a mite bit of a turnoff. Still, as a natural flirt, when he saw her in the Calcutta hotel, she looked fearless yet harmless, just another one of the adventurous gals the he’d had met in his journeys.

How wrong he was to let his guard down.

Standing there bleeding while moisture coalesced and dripped down onto the cave floor, his shooting arm pumped full of lead, it was all Larson could do to try and keep a brave face. He was certain that she was going to kill him this time.

He’d never see Pierre again, never get to go back home and show Ma and Pa who he’d decided to spend his life with—if only just to see the looks on their faces when they found out it was  _a man_ —and most certainly he’d die cursing Jacqueline Natla all the while.

Lara raised one of her signature pistols in his face. “So you think all this talking is just holding me up?” she asked, her brow crossing in fury.

Larson panted, and shot back, “I don’t know where his little jackrabbit frog-legs are runnin’ him to!”

It was the truth. Ms. Natla had separated the two of them when it came time to relay mission orders. She seemed to want complete secrecy, and there was something about  _that_  that Larson didn’t like, either.

“You’ll have to ask Ms. Natla,” Larson finished.

Just then, he spied his pistol laying on the ground behind Lara, from where her gunfire had knocked it out of his hand. In an instant, he tried to lunge past her to grab it, to have some way of defending himself from this madwoman in brown short-shorts—and felt a sharp jab to the side of his head.

Everything went black.

 

***

 

Larson awoke several hours later. Opening his eyes, he instinctively rubbed his head with his left hand. The cave ceiling blurred for a minute, then came into focus. Soon after, he tried to get up by leaning on his right arm, and his face contorted in pain as the bullets embedded within made themselves known again.

“Goddammit,” he uttered, using his left hand to help him sit up. Grabbing at his wounded arm with his good hand, he looked around for something to use to wrap it in—a broad leaf, some cloth left behind, something,  _anything—_ and came up empty.

Sighing, he rose to his feet, legs shaking slightly in exertion. After standing, Larson stumbled and gave himself a moment to become steady.

Grunting, he dipped his left shoulder down and the left side of his leather vest began to slip off his shoulders. The center followed shortly after, with the right side clinging halfway down his arm. Using his good hand, he slowly removed the vest completely and held it for a moment, giving it a pondering glance.

Quickly, he dropped it to the ground, lifting his good hand and hooking his fingers in the gaps between his red flannel shirt’s buttons. One tug, two, and the buttons flew off, leaving the front of his shirt hanging open, his thick blond chest hair exposed to the cool, damp cave air.

One-handedly removing it from its tucked-in place in his belt, he wandered over to the small lake and collapsed on his knees in the slimy edge. Taking off his flannel the rest of the way, in a fashion similar to how he removed his vest earlier, Larson dunked the shirt within the icy cool water.

Taking it out, he held one end in his teeth and the other in his left hand.  _‘Ms. Natla better pay my dental bills if I lose a tooth over this,’_ Larson thought.

Clenching down hard, he ripped his flannel shirt down the center, and repeated the action to produce a thick ripped strip of cloth. Tossing the flannel on the ground, he used his left hand to wrap the scrap around his injured right arm, knotting it as best he could. To tighten it, he took one end of it in his teeth and pulled with his left arm.

Stumbling back to his feet, Larson looked over at the only way out: scrambling over boulders, climbing inclines and small cliffs… How in the hell would he do it with only one arm?

Larson scoffed. “Well hell. If it’s for money, I can do it. If it’s for Boss, I can suck it up.”  _Boss._  That reminded him of something. He made a beeline over to the leather vest he’d dropped. Leaning down, he picked it up with his good arm and stared at it.

This was one of the first presents Pierre had ever gotten him. He had wanted Larson to have a matching leather coat of some kind, something to establish the pair as a  _‘brand’._  Something to establish them as an inseparable package, that they were together.

Larson was thrilled at the idea. Boss was too cool. He always had the best ideas, and it was a great way to have them match without the need for fancy or easily-lost jewelry. He had never been interested in anything shiny and metal that wasn’t a gun or gold. So to match the jacket Pierre wore, emblazoned with an eagle on its back, Larson had been gifted by his lover a leather vest. It also had a small eagle on it, in the bottom-left corner of the front.

A symbol of freedom. A pact of companionship. A gift of love.

There wasn’t any way in hell that Larson was leaving this behind.

Larson pulled it over his right shoulder, then tried to awkwardly shake the left side on. Swallowing, he slowly lifted his wounded arm and pulled the vest over his other side. He grunted in pain, trying to ignore his body screaming at him to stop.

But before he knew it, it was over. He panted in exertion and grabbed his cloth-wrapped arm. His vest was back securely in place, though it made him look like one of the Village People with no shirt beneath, and it felt awkward and moist against the hair on his back.

This was the easiest part of the workout his shot-up arm was going to get. It would likely be bleeding again by the end of his journey out of the Peruvian caves; thankfully he had a snowmobile waiting for him hidden out of sight. After that was supposed to be a trip back to Natla Technologies headquarters to receive his next command… but surely Ms. Natla wouldn’t mind if Larson made a detour to help Pierre out in Greece, would she?

Larson climbed up over the first incline, resolute in his new goal.

 

***

 

Larson had needed a couple of weeks to let his arm heal. Logically, he’d known that from the start, but it didn’t make him any less pissed that Lara Croft was likely already on the second Scion piece’s trail.

There he was, back in action, at St. Francis’ Folly. He’d been tailing Lara for a few days, according to the watch he kept in his rucksack. A fresh flannel on his person—again in red, his favorite color—Larson resolved to follow the most dangerous woman alive.

Larson considered himself a master of stealth; Ma didn’t find him for two whole hours when they were playing Hide and Seek when he was a kid. He didn’t even do much either, he’d hid under a blanket in the trailer’s living room. He could seamlessly blend in with his surroundings. Hiding from Lara Croft, who was  _much_  less perceptive than Ma, would be a piece of cake.

But there was neither hide nor hair of Lara, just proof that she’d been past the traps and locks leading down to the Tomb of Tihocan. He followed her exact path, hoping he could catch up with Pierre or at least distract the adventurer while his French-kisser had the time to find the Scion piece hidden here.

He’d taken up at  _least_  thirty minutes of her time with their gunfight and conversation back in Peru—with fire in his veins, his sweetheart’s reputation on the line, surely he could do even more in Greece.

The trail ended in an underground temple surrounded by water. This was it; this is where the second piece of the Scion  _had_ to be. And surely, Pierre would come running out at any minute. Boss would be there, surprised but joyous to see his cowboy waiting for him with open arms. They’d embrace, they’d kiss, and Larson would feel that familiar and fuzzy brunet goatee against his blond stubble.

He heard footsteps. But they were much too light to be Pierre’s. A sinking feeling slowly spread out from his gut to his heart, and he ducked behind one of the large, decorative limestone blocks flanking either side of the entryway’s path. He waited until the person came out of the temple, their footsteps echoing in the cavern. After hearing them pass by, he took a peek from behind the block and saw his worst fear come true.

His heart fell; it was Lara Croft, holding two-thirds of the Scion of Atlantis.

After placing them in her backpack, she dove into the water, swimming down into depths unknown.

 _‘Aw, shit, no, no no no no—’_  Larson panicked, rushing into the temple. He zoomed past the doorway, beyond pieces of a creature that looked like it had…  _exploded from_   _within,_  zig-zagging through the pillars leading into the platform the Scion once sat upon.

And there he was. Pierre, lying battered and bloody, groaning—guns nowhere to be seen.

 _“Boss!”_  Larson screamed, and rushed over to Pierre’s side.

Larson collapsed on his knees, cradling Pierre’s head in his lap. Coughing for a moment, Pierre blinked, then opened his eyes.

“L-Larson…?” he wondered, looking up into the concerned face of his companion. “ _Mon amour,_  you came for me. I am touched.”

Larson gulped, and said, “Hell, Boss, I couldn’t leave you. Yer the finest ass I’ve ever seen. And you know me, when I find booty I like, I chase it to the ends of the Earth.”

Pierre chuckled, murmuring, “Ah, but perhaps this is… one conquest you should leave behind. I… I fear that I am not long for this world,  _mon cher.”_

“Like hell you are,” cursed Larson, “You ain’t gonna leave me. I’m not lettin’ ya. I… I don’t wanna be left all alone again.”

Pierre shook his head, grimacing in pain, holding his chest and stomach with both hands. “ _Non,_  please. Nothing would make me… more happy than to see… see you leave safely. Get out of here, avoid Lara Croft like your life depends on it. Live a life full of adventure and…” his words were suddenly cut off as he groaned in pain. The color drained from his face, and his head fell slack in Larson’s arms.

All thought left his head.

“…Boss?” he asked, a pleading tone in his voice. “C’mon, this ain’t funny. Get up. Ya promised me that we’d go get milkshakes after this job with Ms. Natla.”

Larson was met with silence.

“Pierre. Pierre, wake up,  _c’mon,”_ Larson begged. Pierre gave no reply. Larson leaned down, tears in his eyes, to listen for a heartbeat.

_Thump…_

_Thump…_

_Thump…_

Tears rolled down Larson’s cheeks. His French-kisser was OK. He had to get him out alive. Get him to a hospital.

And make Lara pay.

Larson pulled Pierre onto his back, piggybacking his Boss in an epic display of strength. He set his lover down gently by the water’s edge, and scooped up some of the cavern’s cold water in his hands. Squatting down, he dumped it onto Pierre’s face, and in short order, it scrunched up in annoyance, his eyes fluttering open.

Exhaling sharply, Pierre quietly said, “I… wha…? Larson? It was not a dream? How… how did you get here,  _amour?_ ”

Larson leaned down and kissed Pierre on his forehead. “That ain’t important, babycakes. We gotta get you outta here. But I don’t got no clue on how to leave. Some current dragged me down here and I think we’d meet a watery end tryin’ to get out that way. What should we do, Boss? I need you.”

Pierre shook his head, and stared into Larson’s hazel eyes for a moment. “You saw… Lara leave, perhaps?” he asked.

“Yeah, Lara swam down someplace and didn’t come back up, what’s that gotta do with anything—” Larson began, before Pierre shushed him.

“My cowboy, you listen to Monsieur,  _oui?_  There must be… an underwater cave leading… to the surface. Follow that, and you’ll be at open air.”

 _“We’ll_ be at open air,” replied Larson. “I ain’t leavin’ ya and that’s final. Don’t you argue with me or I ain’t gonna be on top for the next month.”

Pierre chuckled. “That would not be so much of a change.” He screwed his eyes shut suddenly and called out in pain, his gunshot wounds abruptly reminding the two of them that they were on borrowed time.

Larson swallowed the tears that were fighting to rise again, seeing his lover in so much hurt. “Then I’ll be on top for the next goddamn year if you shut up and listen to me. Please, Boss. Baby, I dunno how I ever survived without ya and I ain’t goin’ back to it.”

Pierre opened his eyes again, gasping, and said, “You make quite the offer,  _mon amour._  As soon as I am healed, I expect no less than ample payment.”

Larson smiled, and replied, “I’ll give you all you can handle, Boss. I’m a man of my word.”

 The two were silent after that; Larson half-dragged, half-carried Pierre over to one of the stone blocks so he could have a support to help him sit up. He plunged into the water, swimming deep down, and located the cave that Lara Croft must’ve used to escape.

Swimming back up, he gasped for air and verified that his companion was still awake. Taking him onto his back, the duo held their breath and Larson swam for his life—not just his, but his lover’s as well.

They just barely made it to the surface. Larson was exhausted, but he pushed himself onward. He dog-paddled over to a sandy beach beneath the cliff holding St. Francis’ Folly. Pierre on his back all the way, Larson trudged onto the hot yellow grains and fell on his knees, the weight of his efforts and his man both bearing upon him. Gently slipping his Boss off his back, Larson collapsed upon the sand and panted heavily.

Clearing his throat, Larson uttered his first words in the better part of an hour. “Boss. How ya feelin’?”

Pierre was panting himself, the exertion of merely staying conscious the entire time seemingly exhausting him. “Never… never better,  _mon amour.”_

Larson chuckled breathily. He reached over for Pierre’s hand and grasped it firmly; the action was repaid in kind, Pierre’s hand grasping Larson’s. The two laid there for a while, wet and panting, hazel eyes gazing intensely into brown, hand-in-hand.

After he was certain that he had caught his breath, Larson forced himself to his feet. “You good like this, babe? I gotta go get the Jeep I drove here. We gotta get you to a doctor.”

Pierre nodded, eyes closed, collapsed on the sand. Larson’s brow dropped, worry written all over his face. He squatted down next to Pierre and placed a hand gingerly on his back, palm spreading out across the eagle on his jacket.

“You listen to me. I ain’t gonna lose my French-kisser. You remember my promise? Let’s add to it—I’ll buy ya Swiss chocolates and we’ll watch one of them cheesy silent French movies you love so much. I love you Pierre. We’re gonna make it through this. You stay awake.”

Pierre smiled wearily, and nodded, rubbing sand into the right side of his goatee. Larson started jogging off into the distance, stopping to glance over at Pierre, who gave him a thumbs-up in reply. Wordlessly, Larson started sprinting off to the rented Jeep, already setting the course for the nearest town in his mind.

***

 

Pierre was going to be OK. The doctors had removed the bullets from his body and he was wrapped up in gauze around the arms and torso. Resting easily, peacefully.

The first thing Larson had done was find a seamstress willing to mend the bullet holes in Pierre’s leather jacket. The second was to plan a next course of action.

Larson was sat in chair beside his lover’s hospital bed, hunched over with his chin cradled in his hands. Pierre was stable, and resting. And beyond his relief, concern, and love, he felt anger.

Was there really a need for Lara to go so far? She had merely knocked Larson out back in Peru. Couldn’t she have disarmed Pierre somehow, or did she know that he wouldn’t make the same mistakes out of stupidity? Did she honest to God see Pierre as a serious threat? True, it made Larson feel more respect for his French-kisser if he struck fear into Lara Croft’s heart even after Rome, but surely there had to have been some  _other way…_

And yes. Rome. Another place where Larson had wound up unscathed compared to his lover whereas Lara Croft had nearly sent Pierre’s life to its end. What the hell did she have against his—his _beloved._

It wasn’t right. It was monstrous. It was  _fucked up._

And Lara had to  _pay_.

Larson leaned back in his chair and clenched his hands into fists. He was going to go…  _wherever_  Lara had gone, and kick her ass, one way for another. That much was certain. But where the hell did she even go? As the he had watched her leave, Lara seemed like she knew where she was going…

Could there have been some kind of set of directions in Tihocan’s tomb? Larson cursed himself for not checking, and tapped his foot impatiently.

Just then, a nurse came in, speaking broken English. “Larson Conway of America? Natla is on the main room phone. She’ll talk to you. Please to answer because she’s very mad!”

As she shuffled off to exit, Larson’s eyes widened in surprise.  _‘Golly, just what I needed,’_  he thought.

He wandered over to the lobby and looked at the phone on the wall, the nurse from before pointing to the phone and making a lifting motion, and he picked up the phone.

 “Well, howdy do, Ms. Natla. How’d ya know I was here?”

Jacqueline Natla’s cold voice could be heard rasping from the other line. “I have friends in high places, Larson. I know all and see all, and I see that Pierre has failed. For your troubles, you’ll both be paid one-fourth of the rate that I had promised—but you can raise that to one-half if you can do one little favor for me.”

Larson’s eyes narrowed, clenching the phone tightly. “Now what would that be, darlin’?”

 Natla spoke quickly and plainly: “Go to Egypt with the coordinates I give you, and forcefully seize the two pieces of the Scion that Lara has. Then you get the last piece, and walk away a rich man. Of course, if you’re too  _frightened—”_

He cut the Natla off mid-sentence. “Hell, I’d do it for free if you made me. Tell me where the fuck that madwoman is and she’ll be fulla more holes than Swiss cheese!”

Larson hadn’t realized he was screaming into the phone until he’d heard the nurse from before cry out in fear. He didn’t care—all Larson wanted in this moment was to wring Lara Croft’s neck for causing grievous pain  _twice_  to his lover.

Natla laughed at Larson’s heated declaration through the phone speakers, and stated, “I’ll have Dwight fly in and brief you within the next 5 hours. Be on standby until then.” At that, she hung up.

Larson slammed the phone down in its receiver and headed out the door, emotions blazing hotly throughout his body.

Oh, was Lara going to  _pay._  She was going to regret the day she had ever fucked with Pierre Dupont.

And with that, he was gone.

 

***

 

It had been two months since Pierre had heard from Larson. His wounds were doing much better, and thankfully his doctor spoke French fluently. He told Pierre that he would be free to leave in the morning, so long as all went well.

Pierre was no longer hooked up to an IV; he got up from his bed and stood up, staring out the window of his hospital room. The last words Larson had said to him were on a note tucked inside his leather jacket.

_‘My French Kisser - Fixt this 4 you. Pleez be well soon. Luv Larson’_

But he was nowhere to be seen. The doctor had only met with Larson briefly, when he had dropped Pierre off at the hospital. Larson spoke no Greek, and the doctor knew very little conversational English, but Larson had made it clear in his actions how much he cared for Pierre. Where, then, had he run off to?

He knew: Larson had ran after Lara Croft. For all Pierre knew, Larson was—

No. He couldn’t bring himself to even think it. The idea of his stupid cowboy being dumb enough to take on Lara Croft, and being… being  _killed_ by her, was too much for Pierre to bear.

It was dinnertime. The nurse assigned to his wing of the hospital had brought in a tray of food. She motioned for him to eat, then left the room.

Pierre sat down on his bed and looked at his meal. It wasn’t particularly appetizing, but he knew eating was one of the keys to recovery. Turning to face his meal, he examined today’s slop. Some kind of soup served with a pita pocket, as well as a glass of water for drinking. Today’s dessert was… chocolate pudding.

Chocolate.

Larson had promised him a box of Swiss chocolates and a movie night, watching one of the silent films from the past that Pierre adored, but Larson complained lacked ‘smoochin’ and explosions.’ Was that going to be nothing more than wishful thinking? A dream of a future that could never be?

Pierre sighed and ate silently, resting his tray on his bedside table. He slowly fell back into an uneasy sleep, praying with all his heart that his stupid cowboy would come back to him in the morning.

 

***

 

Against all odds, Larson was there. He must’ve been waiting for a damned long time. In his hands was a heart-shaped box of chocolates, the brand logo ‘Switzerland’s Finest’ embossed across the top in gold lettering.

The first thing Pierre did was leap out of bed and give Larson the deepest kiss he could muster up, which was returned in kind. Pulling away, arms still wrapped around each other, Larson explained what had happened in these past few months to Pierre.

He had gone after Lara Croft—to which Larson berated him: “You stupid, stupid fool! She could easily have sent you off this mortal coil! Do you not understand?!”—but the Sanctuary of the Scion’s final room was mazelike. Seemingly out of bullets, the archaeologist-adventurer had used the room’s architecture to her advantage and left Larson in the dust.

By the time he had made it out, the pedestal that the artifact was meant to rest on was empty. Larson had followed Lara out, but came out to an empty cliff, though the dirt was ‘scuffed up all around,’ which to Pierre meant signs of a struggle.

After the week-long trek back to town, Larson used the last of his savings for a private trip back to Greece, but the damn helicopter broke down halfway there. It took a month to protect the pilot on their way back to town, and at least a week more for them to make it to a bigger city.

It was there that Larson was able to check his bank account, and found none of the extra funds that Ms. Natla had promised. An angry call to Natla Technologies revealed that Natla hadn’t been heard from in about the same amount of time it had taken Larson to make it to the city, and they were in complete disarray.

The frazzled secretary agreed to wire over both Larson and Pierre’s money to Larson’s account, so long as he’d kept mum about Jacqueline’s extracurricular activities.

It was settled, and unfortunately Larson still had to make it to Greece. Booking a flight took him to the wrong side of the country, and not wanting to dip into Pierre’s side of the funds, he’d had to backpack and hitchhike back to the hospital.

Pierre stood there, stunned—and elected not to mention the inexpensive price of a flight from one side of Greece to another—as he processed the information given to him just then. Larson went through  _all that_  just for  _him_? “ _Mon dieu_ ,” was all that he could say.

Larson stared at him for a bit. “I think I heard the nurse say that ya get to go home today. You feelin’ up to it, Boss?”

Pierre nodded slowly.

“Great. Let’s get the hell outta here. I gotcha some clothes—though I know they ain’t the stylish kind you like.”

Bland gray shorts and a blue T-shirt in the bag Larson had gotten him. Pierre  _tsk_ ed at having to wear something so plain, but he was glad he didn’t have to fly out of Greece in an open-backed hospital gown. The only person Pierre wanted to see his ass was right in front of him—the idea of exposing his rear to the populace at large was… disconcerting, to say the least.

Larson helped him undo the knots at the back of his gown, dropping it on the bed. Larson whistled, “Damn, Boss. Lookin’ fine as ever,” and ran a hand across the hairy cheeks of Pierre’s ass.

Pierre chuckled. “A shame, then, that the shorts must cover me, ah?”

Larson grunted in agreement as he withdrew his hand, watching Pierre start to slip into the shorts he’d brought.

Just then, a hand on his waist stopped him. “Boss, hang on. I wanted to surprise you with this, but hell, lemme show ya anyway.”

Pierre turn to look at his lover, a quizzical look plastering his face. Larson turned around and leaned down slightly, grabbing a smaller bag from behind the chair next to the hospital bed.

“Here ya go,” Larson stated, with a grin on his face. Pierre took the bag and reached inside. A jockstrap, his favorite kind of underwear, was inside. It was just his size, colored in a golden yellow.

“Ms. Natla’s company’d paid us only $10,000 each,” Larson stated, “And I knew you’d be disappointed. So I thought I’d go out and getcha some gold, even if it ain’t the kind you like most.”

Staring at the underwear with bright eyes, Pierre turned it over in his hands, staring at the well-stitched material.

After a moment, he replied, “Larson, you—you incredible man. It is wonderful.” Pierre wasted no time in putting it on, thrusting out his covered bulge for Larson to appreciate. “Well? How do you like your French-kisser in this? Ah? Enticing,  _non?_ ”

In response, Larson licked his lips and planted a kiss right on Pierre’s mouth, the two once more embracing, hands gently massaging each other’s backs, tongues crossing each other in passion.

“Enticin’ enough that I think we might just have to park the car in a little alley someplace for me to follow up on the first day of my promise,” Larson offered.

Pierre grinned. He resumed pulling his new, albeit tacky, clothes on, slipping his leather jacket on top of the blue shirt. Taking Larson’s hand, the Pierre braced one side of the box of chocolates against his stomach and opened it with the hand not holding Larson’s. He withdrew two pieces, handing his lover one as they began to walk out the hospital room’s door.

“There is one more thing I need a promise of, Larson,” Pierre began, looking into the Heaven that was his cowboy’s eyes

 “Oh yeah? Whazz tha’?” Larson asked, his mouth full of chocolate.

He stopped Larson in his tracks, their gazes still caught in one another. “We are never,  _never_  dealing with Lara Croft again. The second we  _smell_  her in a job, for us or for a client,  _s’il vous plaît,_  we are dropping it to seek fortune elsewhere.  _Comprends?”_

After taking a moment to swallow his chocolate, Larson nodded.

“Yeah. I got it. She’s fun to look at, but Boss—she’s got it  _in_  for you. I don’t wanna see her pretty face again as long as I live.”

Pierre grunted in agreement, and squeezed Larson’s hand tighter, and Larson leaned down to kiss his lover on the cheek.

“I love you more than everything, Pierre. Hell, baby, you  _are_  my everything.”

Pierre sighed in content. “I would not trade you for all the riches in the world, my Larson. Let us leave this place, and I will buy you a milkshake.”

Larson guffawed, and said, “Fuck the milkshake, Boss, let’s find a quiet place to get  _busy.”_

Pierre liked the sound of that.


End file.
